Every once in a while, I meet a man who smells like the best day of my life, who leans in to smile, and meets my eye with a gaze that could make a girl drop from SKDS (Sudden Knee Disappearing Syndrome). The one on Saturday even knew how to dance.
Maybe it's my bad dating history. Maybe I'm just getting older. Maybe my ovaries have changed their tune. Whatever it is, the idea of dealing with someone without husband potential feels like a waste of time. My Saturday Man will not be interested Sunday morning. He won't make decisions for our best interest. He won't wake up and put someone else's needs ahead of his own. He won't call, and I'll spend the week wondering if it was because I'm too fat. I'll end up chasing down a flat dream, pummeling it to dust, and then hate myself for obsessing over someone who probably never uses my name when he talks to friends.
In a snap, these realities hit me in the face and in one song I have a great, fleeting romance with a great, fleeting guy. Then I go home to the man who will chase me, and have me, for the rest of my life.
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